


and i don't want to twist your arm (a lot)

by Lomonte



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Suicide, Period-Typical Homophobia, Thomas needs a hug, i just want them to get along a l i t t l e bit, im venting, long overdue bonding and reconciliation, set directly after Edith's wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-13 18:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonte/pseuds/Lomonte
Summary: After recovering from the shock of being asked to come back to Downton to serve as butler, Thomas (unfortunately for Mr Carson) has questions. Unfortunatly for Thomas, Carson has some of his own too.





	and i don't want to twist your arm (a lot)

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ:  
After watching the downton movie (which was fun) i couldnt help but notice that on Mr carsons arrival ( :/ thanks for that mary...) Thomas greeted him with cheer, and Carson didnt scoff at his (rightful imo) tantrum. I've always been a bit miffed that carson and thomas didnt really get their resolution in the show, so here we are. Originally this was just going to be a fic abt Thomas being cheeky and making Carson admit stuff (not spoilers sksk), but, ofc, while writing this it spiraled out of control and into angst and (moderate) comfort. I JUST WANT THEM TO TALK. i know they normally wouldnt (men) but in my defence its 1: late in the fic and 2: theyve had a long and emotional day. maybe its ooc. maybe its wanting them to be emotionally honest and open.  
I DO want to say that i am struggled w/ beginning of this fic, it proved harder than i expected, but i hope you can grant me some leniency.  
WELL sorry for the long note, i hope u enjoy!! <33

_Tick, tick, tick._

The moment you notice the ticking of a clock, you’re doomed. Thomas couldn’t shake it off now. He couldn’t go back to ignoring it, it was so quiet in the house and he was too tired to focus on anything else. It was driving him crazy. His head ached and he tapped his index finger against his throbbing temple. It had been since the beginning of that night; had started at the beginning of Lady Edith’s wedding even. Had seconds always been this loud?

The sound of papers rustling joined the ticking and throbbing like an instrument would a melody as Mr Carson folded open a ridiculously large book to peer into. Thomas tried to pretend he was doing something as well, but put his pen down after another few minutes of staring at the page before him and sighed, hoping to get Mr Carson's attention. He didn't. He thought to crane his neck to look at the clock on the other side of the office and see the time, but it seemed mighty tiring to do so. The clock was all the way _over there_.  
He was tired and the balmy warmth in the room didn’t help clear his mind, not to mention his headache. But there was also a pressing question on his mind, and the one person who could answer it was sitting next to him. 

“Mr Carson?”

He got a tired hum in response. Thomas jiggled his leg, a little unsure if he should tread this territory. He could always ask him on his last day, avoid any lasting conflict, would the question anger or annoy the man. Had that ever stopped him before, though? Still.

Mr Carson sighed, running trembling hand over his face. “Out with it Thomas.”

_It’s Mr Barrow now,_ he wanted to say, but Mr Carson had most likely just slipped up out of exhaustion, something Thomas was also currently guilty of, so he granted him his absolution. For this once.

“If I may ask, Mr Carson… Who was going to be your replacement? Originally?”

For a moment he thought maybe he hadn’t understood or heard the question, for it was silent for a considerable stretch of time, but then Carson heaved a great big sigh, and put his pen down.

“I didn’t know I would retire today, Mr Barrow. Something you know.”

There was a warning in his voice there, something Thomas recognized. His father had used the same tone of voice almost daily. He had learned from a very young age that it meant he needed to be silent, or expect discipline. He knew now that Carson wouldn’t yell, or hit or curse, but he would maybe glare, or bristle or look disappointed, and to Thomas, who was used to far extremer measures, it almost hurt more. Thomas, however, had always been a bit of a masochist.

“I suppose.”

But Mr Carson didn’t relax, knowing him perhaps not well, but long enough, to know this wasn’t the end of this line of questioning.

“But you must’ve known,” Thomas started again, testing the waters, “that retirement was impending?”

Carson did, unsurprisingly, bristle at that. “You may be my replacement, Mr Barrow, but I would appreciate it if you’d lessen the cheek.”

Which wasn’t really fair, because Thomas wasn’t being cheeky; wasn't trying to be cheeky, truly, but it did shut him up for a bit, which had probably been the desired reaction.  
So they sat in silence for a while again, both bend over their own tasks, but Thomas was tired, and still a little shocked, so he couldn't really concentrate. He put his pen down and turned his head to look out the window. It was dark outside, naturally, and the reflection of the yellow light on the window made it hard to see what was going on on the other side of the glass. He leaned closer to it, now able to see the tall trees, their crowns swaying in the wind. Above, the moon, almost full, shining white light over the woods, creating little halos at the edges of the leaves.  
Having always been fascinated with the moon, Thomas understood why people used the word ‘moonstruck’ for such a myriad of things. He was sure he was familiar with all the definitions moonstruck entailed, he had read all of them in a dictionary once.  
Mr Carson, perhaps noting his reverie, or just that he had stopped working, slammed a book down a little too hard, startling Thomas out of it, and pushed his chair back a bit.

“I think we’re going to have to call it a night, then.” 

Thomas turned to catch the older man looking at him with an odd kind of… something like nostalgia, perhaps. It wasn’t fondness, or even affection, just a look someone would have regarding a person they’ve known for a long time. It was gone in a second as Carson reached out to down the last gulp of his now undoubtedly cold tea.

“Don’t be put out by me, Mr Carson. I can go on for a bit.” Carson didn’t appreciate the comment, even though he’d hardly meant offence.

“Well I’m afraid I’m not as young or spry anymore.” But he didn’t get up out of his chair, instead he slowly looked around the room, morose, perhaps mapping out the familiar room he had spent so many of his waking hours in. A room that wouldn’t be his anymore in the soon future. Thomas suddenly felt a bit like he was intruding. Like he was the one driving Carson out, which of course he wasn’t, but still. Perhaps before he wouldn’t have cared, but recent life has graced him with the tiniest ounce of humility, and he couldn't help feel a little bad for the man. His job had been his whole life, everyone knew. Thomas wondered if Carson was wondering what would be left of him without his job. The man had wrapped the title of butler around himself like an identity, his job of service turning into a happy life of servitude and loyalty to the family in a way Thomas knew he never could. They weren’t wired the same way, in that way. In any way, really.

“You must think me daft,” the soon to be butler retiree started, “but I hardly feel ready to leave. Even after all these years.”

It was so emotionally honest and open and unlike Mr Carson that it took Thomas a few moments to find the right thing to say.

“I don’t think it daft at all.” He ended up with, lamely. Carson huffed, but didn’t speak. “I think it’s only normal, after all, it’s not just a job to you.” Carson turned to him at that, eyes curious and imploring.

“Would it be to you?”

A direct question, and a fair enough one at that, but Thomas didn’t really know how to respond. After Mr Carson had opened up to him, it felt dishonest (as if he’d ever had a problem with that before) to give him the short answer, or lie. He was getting a bit tired of lying, to be honest. It was a leaden, heavy weight, a tiredness hanging on to him that didn’t go away after a good night's’ sleep. He felt that way a lot after his… lapse.

“No. But it will never be to me what it is to you,” was his honest answer. It wasn’t quite as diplomatic as it maybe should’ve been, but it was the truth. The other man looked terribly pensive at his answer, which Thomas didn’t exactly enjoy.

“You were always so meticulous in your work, even in the early days.” Mr Carson said as if to refute him.

“Yes,” Thomas simply said.

“Even when, in the beginning, you acted as if you wanted to be anywhere but here.” Carson chuckled a bit, which made Thomas feel less like he was being interrogated or chastised. Still, it felt weird having a conversation like this with the man. Thomas didn’t really know what to say.

“I…” He felt very vulnerable and raw suddenly. He was looked at his hands that were fidgeting in his lap. He wasn’t ready yet, to talk to Mr Carson about this, about anything, and although Carson didn’t know it (or perhaps he did), he was treading dangerously close to a subject that should not be talked about. Mr Carson took a small mercy on him.

“Tell me honestly, did you really hate it here so much?” His voice wasn’t gentle or sympathetic, not by a long shot, but it wasn’t accusing either, and Thomas dared a small laugh. He didn’t look up though. His early years in service, before and during the war, had been turbulent at best. But compared to the years that would follow, it had been his happiest; or at least his simplest.

“I didn’t. I just… I had ambitions.” At which Carson snorted, “And truth be told, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted nothing more than to get out sometimes, other times all I wanted was to climb the ladder.”

He moved his head from side to side, “I just feared being stagnant, I suppose.”

It remained quiet, so Thomas, uncharacteristically, continued. “But it also wasn’t like I really tried to form bonds of any sort, did I.”

He was bitter at his younger self, and craved a cigarette, but didn’t dare light one up in Carson’s office.

Carson agreed, “No you did not,” he hummed while opening a drawer to rearrange some files.

“But you are doing better now, are you not? You haven’t been at war with anyone in a while, and I daresay Mrs Baxter is quite fond of you…” His tone was casually hopeful, and it set Thomas’ teeth on edge. He hoped Carson wouldn’t see him rolling his eyes as tried to let the man down gently.

“We’ve known each other for so long, she’s like a sister to me.” 

Mr Carson wasn’t facing him so he couldn’t read his expression (thankfully), but he sighed. “I see.”

Thomas would have been furious at such a blatant disrespect, but he found fights left him easily these days. Especially so late in the night. So he sighed too, an ancient one, and he spoke quietly. “You know I could never do that.” 

Instead of a quick change of subject like he’d expected the older man just nodded. It was barely an acknowledgement, but it was something, and for some reason Thomas felt oddly validated in that moment.

“I’m glad you found a friend in her Thomas.” The words were soft and mumbled, which very much wasn’t like Carson, but this entire conversation wasn’t really like them, so Thomas didn’t wonder.

“Well,” Thomas snorted, “she certainly has fortitude. One has to with me.”

And where had that come from? Terrified he’d gone too far suddenly, he turned to look outside again, facing away from the desk. He heard Carson shift in his chair, and perhaps he was looking at him again, but Thomas didn’t dare look back.

“I suppose you’re right.” Carson agreed, after taking some time to mull it over. And it was silent for a moment again. Thomas could almost hear the cogs turning in the other man’s head, but he daren’t speak. Carson’s chair squeaked.

“Do you think she sees the value in having persisted?”

Thomas almost laughed at that, and maybe he would’ve if he wasn’t feeling so raw and open all the time. Truth be told, Thomas really didn’t know. She had prevailed even in the hardest moments, but he didn’t know if that was because she cared about him, or just because she was a good person. Thomas had come to regard her as a saint, and he would do just about anything for her, because she had done just about anything for Thomas, for reasons Thomas didn’t really understand. Sometimes when she would say sweet things to him, he almost believed them. But it’s the way the saying goes, once bitten, twice shy, and he’d gotten bitten plenty of times.

“She says so,” was his final answer. He knew Carson wouldn’t take it at face value. Yes, he was an old man akin to the likes of lord Grantham, but he wasn’t an oaf like he was (all of the time). He could be sharp when he ought to be. Carson hummed at the answer, but instead of lapsing into silence again, he said something very surprising and something that made Thomas very uncomfortable.

“She was very brave that day, and very harrowed.”

Thomas squirmed in his chair. This wasn’t a conversation they were going to have, not when Carson had been a factor in his decision, not when he- Thomas’ breath hitched.

“Of course she was, she had to drag me out that damn bathtub, didn’t she?” He put effort in it to sneer the words, but, again, the fatigue he so often felt lately hindered it, so it was more like a disinterested mumble, which was fine as well, actually.  
Carson didn’t comment on the language or cheek, nor did he say anything else. Thomas’ head hurt, and he rubbed his brow.

“I just wish she hadn’t found me.”

The confession left his lips quietly, sneaking past its normally tight confinement. it hung in the air like cigarette smoke, curling lazily between them. His brain hadn’t realized there had been an escapee yet, only when a beat or two had passed did Thomas’ eyes widen. He almost clasped his hand over his mouth.  
What in god's name had possessed him? To Carson of all people! He felt his entire body tense as he looked away from the window and to the door instead.

“I don’t know why I said that-” he tripped over the words, “I- I should go-” and he made a move to stand up, still afraid to look at Carson lest he’d see the disapproval of yet another sin-

But he stopped in his tracks as he felt a firm hand around his arm. Thomas looked at the hand around him, followed the trail to the arm, from the elbow to the shoulder, and finally the man attached, who was looking at him with a queer graveness.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go yet.”

“Why?” he whispered, for he did not understand.

“I have to make sure my successor is up to snuff.” Carson simply said.

Thomas swallowed around a lump in his throat and nodded, but instead of sitting down, he chose to stand behind the chair, as a barrier he supposed, and looked out the window so Carson could only see his profile, partially shrouded in darkness. Carson was the first to speak again, voice infuriatingly soft. Perhaps he too understood the ice they were treading was thin as could be.

“Do you still feel the same as you did on that day? Do you think you will attempt again?”

Thomas shrugged, “No.” He answered honestly. And perhaps it showed, because he heard Mr Carson sit back into his seat a little, the tense atmosphere in the room lessened a bit.

“That’s good to hear,” Mr Carson sighed, sounding a bit breathy, “but then, I have to ask why you wish Mrs Baxter hadn’t found you that day.”

_You don't have to ask, actually,_ Thomas thought snidely.

“I guess…” He tried to find words that didn’t make him sound like a child, but came up short. “I feel some type of embarrassment about the whole,” he made a very eloquent hand gesture, “affair. I feel bad I was seen that way, and I feel bad people had to see me that way.”

The fact that they- Andy, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Baxter- had to pull his bloodless body out of the porcelain tub made him forever in their debt, and he hadn’t asked them for it. The act, the saving- all of it been horribly ungraceful, and it shouldn’t have borne witnesses. It had been a clumsy, undignified affair, as suicide so often was. It wasn’t like in the books or plays, it always hurt, and it was always ugly. The aftermath too, maybe even moreso.

“And I feel…” He looked at the ancient trees out the window, carrying their young leaves. “…shame for I- I couldn’t even do that right.” He felt a sting in his eyes, and damn Carson for not letting him leave, and damn himself for talking, saying all these things that should never reach another ear. He pushed a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath. Most of it was still inky black, but he knew the first few grey strands were starting to become noticeable. He wondered if he would become grey like Carson has, and how long it would take. Or would his hair turn white like his grandfather’s had? Would the hair on his temples turn white like the locks his mother had fussed over? He took a shuddering breath. He found himself wishing for grey. He was standing so close to the window that his breath stuck to the window, blocking his view to the outside.

“You don’t have to say anything, I’m sorry I ev-” but Thomas was cut off by a hand slamming on the desk next to him. Startled, he whipped his head around. Carson didn’t look angry, but he looked mighty exasperated, brows drawn and lips pursed.

“Would you stop apologizing!?” He demanded. He spoke at a normal volume but it was deafening compared to their previously hushed tones. “You were never one to apologize before and now isn’t the time to start!” 

Thomas had to chuckle a little at that, though it sounded a bit more like a huff.

“Never thought you would want me to go back on an apology.” He looked at his feet. “Isn’t that what everyone wants from me? An apology?”

They would never get an apology out of him, not of that scale, not for all the things he’d done over the years that they took offence at. There were maybe two people on this earth and beyond he would apologize to, and none of them were in this house.

He had already tried to make things right with its inhabitants, but they decided not to accept his apology in the form of him dying, so there wasn’t much more to say about that.

“Not for this.” was Mr Carson's solemn reply. Thomas swallowed again, watching the other as they sat back in their chair a bit.

“And,” Carson said, unaware what the words he was about to say would mean to Thomas, “I for one, am glad that you couldn’t.”

Thomas was horrified at this, and a strangled sound escaped him. He couldn’t look at the man’s face anymore, wearing expressions so foreign to him, so he looked at his shoes instead, immaculately shined and spotless. Blinking furiously and feeling like his legs were close to giving out, he gripped the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white. He shook his head, not able to speak.

“Is it really that hard to believe?” Carson had the decency to sound slightly apologetic, perhaps a little aghast, but Thomas did not have time for this. Not when the man showing him something akin to kindness only did so after years of regarding Thomas as nothing more than a thorn in his side.

_Yes,_ he wanted to say, _yes it’s incredibly hard to believe._

“I always thought…” His voice was surprisingly steady, even though his lips felt numb and he was breathing like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

“That you would be…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He felt horribly sensitive and coarse, like his ribcage had opened itself, ripping the skin covering his chest like paper as they moved away from each other in opposite directions like a coffin opening its jaws, revealing his heaving lungs and pounding heart and bloody insides. He felt like he was waiting for his creators to gather round and look and tut and deliberate and finally proceed to give their verdicts about his worth. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore, he couldn’t deny that he had always looked for Charles Carson’s approval, almost from the very start.

It was his cross to bear to always have problems with male authority; they had let him down too often. From his dad to his employers to his very king who made the laws, they had all done him an inexcusable, unforgivable harm. One Thomas couldn’t recover from. But then why had he always looked for Carson’s approval? Why did he take it so hard when Carson sneered at him or dismissed him? Carson incessant hectoring hadn't been the reason for Thomas to try and take his life, but it had been a nail in the coffin, a drop in the bucket, and for him to tell him…? Thomas felt positively sick.

“I don’t appreciate you thinking such things of me.” Carson said in an affronted tone of voice, but Thomas felt it wasn’t directed at him like that.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want rid of me.”

Carson bristled. “I won’t deny that in the end you had become a burden on the staff,”

Thomas flinched visibly. Burden. He felt something dangerous wrapping itself around his heart again, something that hadn’t been there for a short while, something he promised to alert Mrs Baxter about if it would make an appearance. He shouldn’t have this conversation. This was dangerous, he was in the belly of the beast, and he feared it would knock him off the precarious perch he had on his mental stability.

“But I never wanted harm to befall you.” And Thomas believed him, he just didn’t understand.

“Me losing my job would’ve been harmful, Mr Carson. Incredibly so.”

But Carson wouldn’t hear it. “You are an able-bodied man with immaculate training and a good head on your shoulders. And I wrote your reference myself! I daresay you would have been fine.”

Thomas dared look up at the man in the hopes that his expression would convey how wrong he was. Mr Carson’s looked like a man with a mind made up, he looked _authoritative_ and it made Thomas want to scream. Instead his features just decided to settle on sad.

“I am trained for a profession of the past. All the jobs I applied for either rejected me or told me I was overqualified. One butler even… He was onto me. Made things very clear, as they always do.” Now he did feel his face turn into an ugly scowl, Carson listened raptly.

“Time was ticking, which you made abundantly clear,” he sneered a little at that, “and I had nothing to fall back on.”

Carson looked pensive, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair.

“You could’ve always gone back to-”   
Thomas had to cut him off right there, “I’m the eldest son of a clocksmith, trained to be his successor, but instead I arrived at your doorstep at fifteen. Do you really think I have family to fall back on?”

_I don’t even know if my mother is still alive,_ he wanted to screech, _I don’t even know if I have nephews, or nieces, I don’t even know what my sisters look like now._

The older man raised his brows at this, though unsurprised. “No, I suppose not.” he granted him.

“But surely that is not enough to move a man to such drastic measures. Especially not you.” The comment he would’ve taken as a compliment before simply felt empty for he _had_ been moved to such measures. 

“Even though a stable income and residence are pretty essential; no. No that wasn’t all of it.”

He let go off the back of the chair with a sigh and straightened his back. Well his cards were on the table already, weren’t they.

“This house… it ate me alive.” He thought Mr Carson might protest so he continued quickly.

“In the end, after all those years, I was a ghost here. Nothing felt real, I felt nothing.” His bad hand was shaking. “It was like people walked through me. Every time I stepped into a room- and- and now it wasn’t just that, now I was even redundant as an employee, soon to be thrown out. Everyone was happy, and moving on and in love and I? I- I felt like I was being crushed, I felt like I was already…” _dead._ He couldn’t say it.

He dragged a hand over his face, and looked out the window again. His shoulders were slumped, and he half wondered if Carson would comment on his posture.

“So I decided to take the step, just to be the first to do it. To take it in my own hands, just to beat the reaper to the punch, I guess. At the time, the thought of it was the only thing that felt real. It was the only thing I thought about for weeks. The house had finally swallowed me whole.” He shuddered, and wondered if it was visible. What was Carson thinking now, now that his nemesis was standing before him, weak and unguarded. He hated that he still cared, after all these years. 

“I was so angry when they dragged me out the bathtub, so horrified that they would deny me even that. But… then I saw it for what it really was, I suppose.”

He owed his life to Mrs Baxter and no one else. Well, nearly no one else. Mrs Hughes had cared for him for days, whispering comforting words and wiping away his tears and sweat when Mrs Baxter couldn’t. She had looked so pained then, and it was hard for Thomas to understand why at first.  
Andy had came and went, in the beginning he’d ask the women if he could be of any help, wringing his hands and looking young. Later he would come with platters of food and cigarettes and cards and he would talk about the books he was trying to read, and he had, surprisingly, been a very warm and welcome distraction. It was because of these three people (and realistically speaking doctor Clarkson too) that he was still alive, but he knew he owed most of it to Phyllis Baxter. In the beginning he had hated them all, crying and cursing them out in his feverish state, but after a while, after Phyllis had cried and begged him not to try it again, for her sake, he had vowed to try and never make her cry again.

“So, no. I don’t feel the need to do it again, at the moment.”

All of this was met by the expected stretch of silence, but Thomas didn't mind. He was grateful for it; it gave him a moment to collect his bearings. His ribs were groaning from the strain of being opened, and Thomas felt a wave of melancholy wash over him. The same melancholy women got put in asylums for. Thomas would do great between them.  
He saw an owl fly nimbly through the treetops, smooth and quick.

“Then I think I owe Mrs Baxter a great deal of gratitude for keeping my protege alive.” Was the answer Mr. Carson settled on. His voice was rough. Thomas let out a shaky huff of air.

“Yeah.”

_Tick, tick, tick._

“Thomas I- You can’t think I was happy…” He trailed off. “I was misguided, I thought you simply didn’t care. I thought you didn’t care about what anyone thought.”

Thomas grimaced. “I keep being accused of that.”

Mr. Carson’s chair squeaked again. “Can you blame us?”

_Yes,_ he thought, _yes, I can absolutely blame you for that._ But it wouldn’t have been entirely fair, because Thomas had done everything in his power to get people to think he was untouchable, unshakable. The art of covertness was born a protective companion to his inclinations.

“I don’t know,” was his honest and plain answer. “I’m confused about a lot of things these days.”

“That makes two of us.”

Thomas responded with a terse smile, but kept his gaze on the window. “The thought of you questioning anything shakes me, I must admit, Mr. Carson.”

Carson grumbled at that, clearly questioning if he agreed with the unflattering statement or not. “Well, the world is changing all the time these days, one must be a fool to not question their place in it.”

Oh, but that was interesting. Mr. Carson, who had always done everything in his power to ignore change and the people who represented it, questioning his place in a world all too eager to leave the past behind? It sounded unrealistic to him.

“Did you find it?” He did dare glance over to the other man at that. Carson huffed and shifted in his chair, hands folded over his rotund belly.

“I lost it today,” he said, more gruff than introspective, “but even I have some grip on life outside the abbey.”

Thomas found it hard to believe, but he also knew that Carson would do fine, especially with Mrs Hughes to help him out. It would maybe do the man some good to find some form of identity outside of his job.

“You’ll be fine,” He said with a small grin, at which Carson gave a terse smile back and hummed, agreeing.

“I believe we’ll both be.” Carson didn’t look caring, per se, but there was there was definitely something pleased in his eyes when regarding Thomas. It made Thomas feel weird for he simply wasn’t used to it, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Though Thomas didn’t really know if Carson was right; he didn’t know if he was cut out for the job. He didn’t know how the others on the staff would react, he didn’t know how he would do under the workload, he didn’t know if he could prove himself to his employers when they were used to (and adored) Mr. Carson. He didn’t know a lot.

Something must’ve shown on his face, because Mr. Carson leaned forward a bit.

“You will do well, Thomas. I trained you, didn’t I?”

Thomas chuckled at the smugness.

“You did.”

Should he thank him? There was honestly nothing Thomas wanted to do less. Carson might’ve trained him, but he had always favoured one of his co-workers over him, thus giving them advice and mentoring, and ignoring Thomas as best as he could. It had been reluctant guidance at best.

He didn’t owe Mr Carson a lot, and that is why he dared ask the question again.

“Who was it going to be?” He didn’t dare be too cheeky about it, but still Carson looked a bit grouchy. He looked at Thomas with his bushy brows drawn together.

“I didn’t know yet,” he said, but Thomas found that hard to believe; that a man like Carson would only start looking for a replacement when he’d be forced into retirement.

“I had looked around, of course, in the papers and through other households and such.”

But that also didn’t really seem right.

“I find it hard to believe you would hand over the reins to a person you didn’t train. A person who doesn’t know your ways, who doesn’t know the house.” Thomas tried to keep his tone airy and casual. Carson bristled.

“Well, I would’ve prepared them of course.”

“Would’ve taken a long time,” he reminded him.

“Depends on the talent,”

“‘s hard to come by these days.”

“Enough butlers looking for a job,” he said as if it was the final say.

It was true though, that a lot of former servants were looking for a place. That is, if they weren’t moving on altogether.

Butlers, however, like cooks, remained something the rich folks couldn’t quite yet say goodbye to. Thomas wondered how many former butlers had reached out or put out their resumés, and how many of them were actually any good. 

“And were they up to snuff?” And now he was being cheeky, but damn he needed to shake off the claws of whatever emotion he was feeling.

Instead calling out his cheek or grumbling or ending the conversation, Carson did the most unexpected thing, and snickered as he inspected the empty teacup.

“No.”

Thomas nodded at that, satisfied. Emboldened from his win, he went on, “I always thought you had a long-term plan for everything concerning the house.”

Still, the amusement on Carson’s face didn’t disappear, even as he shook his head. His voice carried more than a hint of mirth as he spoke. “I’ve already lost, haven’t I?”

_No, you never lose,_ Thomas mused, a bit bitter, but he remained quiet, eyes trained on the butler as he shifted in his chair to sit straighter up.

“If you want me to stroke your ego and say it was you all along, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.” It certainly wasn’t the answer Thomas had hoped for, but it was the one he expected, and there was nothing adverse in the other man’s face or voice. Thomas knew he hadn’t been top pick, _obviously_. If he had been that would’ve meant Carson gave a damn about him somewhere.

“Many boys and men have walked through these halls, and I’m sad to say none of them were any good if they were to be taking over. Then again, maybe my standards are too high.”

Thomas could give him that, his standards were too high. But then again, they were the same standards the man measured himself by, so it wasn’t unfair, per se.

“Poor William was too meek,” Carson sighed, unaware that Thomas wanted to scoff at the name, “Alfred and James-” he snorted as an explanation.

He got more earnest then, a little more sincere, and much more bitter.

“You had the ambition and desire to be a butler. You had a care for detail, you had the stamina to be what I desired from you. But you acted out Thomas. You caused ruckus and you lied, and even though a butler must be feared, he must also be respected, and you were running everyone down.” 

Thomas felt a bit like a boy in that moment, having to choose between feeling prideful at the compliments, or to feeling abashed at the chastising. Why did it still matter to him what Carson said, honestly?

“You could’ve, I don’t know… Told me.” He knew how he must’ve sounded, but looking back on his earlier years, he wished someone would have cared enough to slap him round the ears a view times and take him under their wing, away from the influences of O’Brien, who he still missed sometimes.

“I could’ve,” Carson replied, still not deterred, he continued.

“Every time you acted out of order, it felt like it was failing. I had my eye on you because you had talent, but it became clear to me you didn’t care about the job, about upholding the honour of the house, and all things that mattered to me a great deal. At some points, I will admit, I couldn’t stand the sight of you.”

Harsh. Maybe not fully undeserved, but still, ouch. It wasn’t like he didn’t know it though, and it also wasn’t like the feeling hadn’t been reciprocated at some points.

“Because you refused to live up to your potential, I gave up on you.” Thomas chewed on the inside of his cheek. Carson pursed his lips.

“And I shouldn’t have.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Oh god.

His breath hitched. So many people had given up on him over the years. His family, his friends, his lovers, his co-workers, his employers-

Phyllis Baxter, the saint, had been the only one to pull through and stick around.

For the person who had given up on him the hardest, so to speak, to say that they’d been wrong for it- for Mr. Carson to say he had been wrong, wrong about _anything_ at all…

He didn’t care about his father anymore, the devil of a man had died years ago, as miserable as he had lived, not even reaching out to reconcile on his deathbed. For the closest thing comparable to say that he _shouldn’t _have given up on him, that this authoritive figure had been _wrong… _It meant more than he could say. And it was almost too much. But damn it, he would _not _show what it meant. He _refused. _

So he took a shuddering breath, and another one. And the silence stretched on, even as he scrunched his brows and bit his lip, Carson just kept watching him, not saying a word.

His bones were rattling in his chest, and he should _say something._

“I’m… sorry you had to,” His voice did shake now, “Give up on me, that is.”

And Carson did look like the kind man everyone insisted he was in that moment. Thomas was just sad it was an alien thing to him.

“Me too,” and it was a little accusing, because of course it was, but Thomas didn’t care because Thomas was back in the game. Carson had stopped giving up on him, and that meant something.

Mr Carson grunted, reseating himself in his chair again, either antsy or aching or both.

“Another apology. Are you a changed man, Mr Barrow?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood, but unwilling to end the long overdue conversation when Thomas was finally speaking without sneering or an agenda. Thomas let out a small breath through his nose. He was trying to stop shaking.

“Like you said, everything is changing these days Mr Carson. I’m trying it out.” Mr Carson laughed a short, gruff laugh at that.

"Is it working out for you?” he asked, looking genuinely interested.

“I don’t know yet,” he said, raising his brows, “I don’t even know what makes me happy, to be honest, so what does that mean for me.”

He chewed his lip again, staring at something in the distance. The truth was that Thomas had always chased after what he thought would bring him contentment and prosperity, but he never got there and he never found it along the way; could never even get close enough to get an impression. He had seen it in other people, people he could never compare to, and it made him envious and ruthless. He had spent so long chasing what he thought would make him happy, what he was _told_ would make him happy (by people he shouldn’t have listened to), and he never got it. A lot of the time it felt more like he was running away from things that made him _un_happy, than _to_ things that made him happy, and along the way he had confused those two for the same.

But for Mr Carson’s question, if it was working out for him, he honestly didn’t know yet. He needed to give it a little more time. Mrs Baxter said he was doing a good job, but sometimes this black thing would curl around his heart a squeeze a little, and Thomas would have trouble touching his shaving kit in the morning. Those days were the days he snapped at the maids and didn’t exchange pleasantries with the delivery men, would they run into him. But Mrs Baxter said he was doing a good job and, Christ, he was trying. For the first time he was genuinely trying to work on himself, to push himself in the right direction, now that he had an inkling of what that was, _and Mrs Baxter said he was doing a good job. _She looked really proud sometimes, on the rare times they found time to meet up, which confused and delighted him all the same. So maybe, _maybe_ he was onto something.

“So it’s worth a try, anyway. I feel like I’m trying to shake something dark and ancient off, something I was born with or something that latched on at a young age, I don’t know. I guess I used to think it was normal, but it came to a head and now I just want it gone.”

Carson seemed to appreciate that, mulling it over and turning his head a bit, he looked like he was wine tasting.

“That’s a good way to put it. I hope you succeed,” he finally settled on.

“I hope so too,” he said, though they both knew hope was dangerous thing for a man like him to have.

The tall clock against the wooden wall let out a loud _bong, _trice, to signal that they should have gone to bed two hours ago at least. It startled them out of their conversation, and lifted the emotional mist hanging in the room. A bit.

“Heavens, the time.” Carson looked at the relative mess on his desk and sighed.

“Let’s leave the clean-up for tomorrow, why don’t we.” Thomas suggested, feeling quite drained.

“Procrastination is not a trait desired of a butler, Thomas,” Carson warned, but he stood up out of his chair anyway, “Planning and perseverance, both crucial attributes.”

Thomas pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it on.

“I imagine there’s lots for me to master yet.”

He wasn’t exactly nervous about it, not really. Thomas knew he was good at his job, and if Carson and lesser men could do it, so could he. Not to mention the experience he had running a smaller house and the years he had spent in this one, and yet...  
There was a tiny thread of dread trapped in his veins. Again, his doubts rolled around in his head. How would the family react if he’d do something differently, or wrong? How would his co-workers react to him returning? Could they stomach him ordering them around? Could he even manage such a big staff? How would _he _react to being back in this house he had such history with? Could he stand passing the men’s bathroom? Time would tell he supposed.

“Quite. But if you’re diligent and able, you will get the hang of eventually.” Carson walked to the hat stand and took off his coat and shawl, and looked a bit pained again as he looked around the room. Thomas blew out a candle still lit.

“I’m going to miss this place.”

Again, a little pity went out to the man. Thomas pulled his coat from where he had draped it over the other chair in the corner.

“It’s not going anywhere,” Thomas said, tone perhaps a little too clever, so he quickly continued, “You can always come ‘round if you like.”

_Just not too often, please._ No matter the conversation they had had, the last thing he wanted was Mr Carson breathing down his neck. But Carson seemed oddly touched at this so it was worth it he supposed.

“Well,” Carson said after a beat of silence, shaking something off, “I am still expected to keep an eye out, and I can’t just throw you in the deep end,” he huffed.  
“I won’t let the abbey burn down, not while I’m still around.” He said it with his chest puffed and proud, and Thomas felt like rolling his eyes. He wondered where this misplaced loyalty came from, and if it would ever catch him. He highly doubted it.

“I’ll try not to let the abbey burn down Mr Carson,” he drawled back sarcastically, although he wasn’t sure the house wouldn’t just spontaneously collapse on itself when Carson walked out the door.

“I’ll check on you often,” he said threateningly, but with more warmth than Thomas was used to, “Make sure you’re up to snuff.”

Thomas smiled a little at this, looking down to close the buttons on his coat.

“Right.”

Thomas checked his bearings and walked over to where Carson stood waiting next to the door. He pushed it open for Thomas in a gentlemanly manner, because for now he was still butler and this was still his office, though it would not be for long. The look he gave Thomas wasn’t one of pride, but it was something fuller and bigger than normal, and Thomas couldn’t help himself.

‘_And I don’t want to twist your arm,’ _he had said, _a lot_, he had added in his thoughts.

So, “Am I up to snuff mister Carson?” he asked as he stood in the door opening, as a way to ask permission to leave, looking as coy as he could repeating the other’s earlier words.

Mr Carson merely looked amused, “You will be.”

His voice was warm and kind, and it made Thomas feel young and eager to please and _damnit_, Carson had won this one. He would beat him in the future, not to worry. He wasn’t going to make it too easy on the man, not if Thomas could help it. He might be a changed man, but not that changed. And as they walked down the dark hall in comfortable silence, he felt something that must be a semblance of _peace_ for the first time in his life, and though he knew it wouldn’t last, he hoped it would come to visit more often.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Please leave review if you liked reading my lil baby fic! Constructive criticism is 100% wanted. Cheerio! <3


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